


(went with you up to) the place you grew up in

by smithens



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Affection, And Not Talking, Falling In Love, M/M, Post-Canon, Summer, Talking, Teasing, Tenderness, Thomas Barrow Mellowing Out A Little Because He's In Love (But Only A Little)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-19 04:17:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22505104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: If a look is worth a thousand words, a touch is worth a million.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Comments: 19
Kudos: 134





	(went with you up to) the place you grew up in

**Author's Note:**

> for those of you who don't follow me on tumblr: i recently had the journey from hell going from the mountain west of the united states to france. long story short, my first flight was delayed long enough i'd miss my international flight from san francisco to paris (which was on a separate ticket, requiring me to recheck baggage), so i was placed on an alternate itinerary with exactly enough time to make my connection. 
> 
> the last flight of that itinerary was also delayed. i missed my flight. i had to buy another one going to _istanbul_ , and then from there backwards to paris, so a journey that was meant to be about 16 hours became 33. 
> 
> the flight from san francisco to istanbul was thirteen hours long, full of screaming children (and i am not exaggerating when i say screaming) + men who didn't understand the concept of "personal space," and without a doubt the worst flight i've ever been on in my life.
> 
> this is a product of that flight.
> 
> title is from phoebe bridgers's smoke signals, which i was listening to at some point during my travelling. the song isn't entirely relevant but those two lines of lyrics are.

**August, 1928**

"There's the trouble of the city for you," Richard is saying. "More people about, breathing up all the fresh air…"

Thomas keeps his eyes closed. 

Aware though he is of the sweat at the small of his back and colours swimming behind his eyelids, the sun is warm and pleasant on his face, the grass a tickle through his fingers. Richard is absentmindedly tousling his fringe at turns with petting the top of his head, affectionate.

"We weren't in the city, last I checked."

"York's a city," Richard says, affronted.

He'd meant that to be romantic, something like, _we are in the back garden of your parents' house and no one can touch us here,_ but…

God, this'll never get old.

"Not _the_ city."

"Given I was making a comparison to Downton – "

"Watch what you say, Mr Ellis, someone might think you've got something to prove."

"About what?"

"Can't care that much for York," Thomas says. The casual air he's trying to project with his tone is ruined by the fact he can't stop smiling. "Must be something deeper."

"And is that so bad?"

"If you've got a complex about it."

"Is that what you think, that I've got a complex?"

"I think you're full of yourself."

It's nice to have someone he can make fun of without him getting his knickers into a twist.

Richard laughs, deep and warm from his chest, and Thomas curls up closer to him, gets his feet and hands back on the blanket.

"Thomas Barrow, calling _me_ full of myself – "

He manages to laugh. It's only fair, after all… and Richard makes it easy to laugh at himself. Comfortable, even. "Takes one to know one," he drawls.

"Makes us an even match, then, doesn't it? – I'll take it as a compliment."

"You weren't meant to – anyway, aside from what got me arrested…"

It's only recently he can joke about it, now he's had confirmation that most of them made out all right, got back on their feet, but he still surprises himself when he does.

"Not much to do?"

"When _you're_ not around, Mr Ellis."

"Plenty to see, besides," Richard says smoothly, carrying on as always… but there's just enough of a hint of something else in his voice that makes Thomas feel quite proud of himself. "We've got an all right cathedral. Made it into the Baedeker and all."

"London's got about five all right cathedrals."

This is not true.

"That's a bit of an exaggeration," Richard says generously. "Add to that, you don't like London."

"I don't _dislike_ London."

"I don't dislike Downton, but there's a reason we're here and not there."

"Yeah, 'cause _I_ dislike Downton."

Thomas opens his eyes to see Richard gazing down at him with the corners of his mouth turned up in that self-satisfied way of his.

"No, you don't," he says. He drags his fingers along his hairline, scratches at his temple; Thomas can't help but roll his head to give him a better time of it. (Always for his sake, of course.) The truth is that he doesn't know how he feels about Downton, but he does know he's got no desire to waste their scarce and valuable time thinking it over now.

That place has enough hold over him as it is.

"It's too hot," he says, changing the subject.

"You're repeating yourself, Mr Barrow," Richard tells him. Thomas thinks he understands.

He always understands, Richard. Ever since their first night together. Before that, even. He's taken him in stride since the very beginning, since he walked up to him and said _reckon I ought to properly introduce myself to the master of the household_ and Thomas had said some stupid joke about the Royal butler he doesn't even remember because he'd been too taken in by his fucking smile to think about the words coming out of his mouth, and Richard had laughed like it was the funniest thing he'd heard in years.

If he were a romantic, he'd call it love at first sight, plain and simple.

He's… something of a romantic, as it happens.

They settle once more, calm and easy. When they're together — and this is the fourth time they have been, including the first, and they both know that can't possibly last with the way their jobs are but neither of them are going to talk about that until they absolutely have to — they don't need to speak. When they're not, they've got letters and the telephone and sometimes when they've just gotten paid they'll send telegrams, and that's when they talk. And they can go for hours over the phone if nothing stops them. (Thomas is always the one to stop them, for the sake of the Crawley's telephone bill. For his own sake, really, since he makes up for the excess out of his own pay.) 

If a look is worth a thousand words, a touch is worth a million.

A stone's throw away, a train rumbles by. The ground shakes; Richard's hand stills at his head.

When it's gone and passed, the roll of the wheels over and the blare of the whistle but an echo, Thomas tilts his forehead against Richard's hand, wanting. "Is it worse in London, then? Haven't been up in the summer for years."

"Spend most of my time indoors in London."

"Yeah, well, that doesn't make much difference, does it? Downton's awful in the heat."

So much for changing the subject. They may as well be picking up where they left off.

But though Richard raises his eyebrows, he says merely, "At the Palace I only mind it in the attics… not often there are days like today, though, here _or_ there."

At first Thomas only hums, and at the sound Richard takes a short lock of hair between his fingers and twirls.

If he weren't already lying down he'd swoon.

"Least we're not serving up ice for a garden party," he says absentmindedly.

He's not sure why. That's not anything he's done for a long time.

"No, our footman days are long over."

"Lucky us."

Thomas rolls over head and body alike to kiss the inside of his thigh, nearer to his knee than to his groin, and then the reverse. Richard stills.

Got him.

"You might take your tie off," he says after a moment. "Cool down some."

He means that in two ways, Thomas is sure.

"Feels like your mum might come out back any minute now."

"Have to wonder why you say that now, if it didn't stop you from – "

Thomas reaches up to shush him; he ends up swatting at his cheek. Before he can pull away, Richard takes him by the wrist and starts kissing his fingers, one by one at the space between his knuckles, then he squeezes his hand before lowering it back down. Humouring him, Thomas allows for him to cover his mouth, lips to his own hand and Richard's on top of it.

"She won't come into the garden while you're around."

And he knows that, and he knows _why,_ but knowledge isn't going to put a stop to his nerves.

Be nice if it worked that way, though.

"It's a wonder she ever wants to see me at all," he mumbles into his palm. Richard lets him go; it's a relief to breathe through his mouth instead of his nose.

"Not a wonder," Richard says sharply. "I had to put work in."

He gets another kiss for his efforts, this time at his knee. Slightly more proper; he knows there are some things they can't touch, here.

"'sa wonder she lets me out of sight, then."

"She's never been one to chaperone."

"Lucky us," Thomas repeats.

But no matter what he lets on, he is grateful for it, so grateful — that she and Richard get on well enough, that she loves her son enough, that he can even be here, whether or not she much likes it. Thomas has never known that in his own house and he never will.

"I know," Richard murmurs, and Thomas begins to sit up. Lifting his head off of his lap is the most arduous task he's undertaken in weeks, if not months. If not _years._

Thomas looks him steadily in the eyes once he has, tugs at the knot of his tie, loosening it. After a long, charged moment, Richard breaks eye contact, lowering his gaze to his mouth and then his neck.

Naturally, Thomas does some gazing of his own.

He's lucky he's good at this — he makes quick work of the tie, leaving it hanging around his neck, and then undoes the top two buttons of his shirt.

"Happy?"

"Thrilled."

He sounds it, too. Out of breath like he's just been running.

Or like he was holding it because he was staring, which is a more flattering thought and add to that what actually happened.

Thomas smirks. "Work must be interesting, if men undressing turns you on so mu – "

As he's speaking Richard opens his mouth, then frowns, then interrupts at the last moment: "those might be the filthiest words I've heard come out of your mouth," he says, sort of teasing and sort of uncomfortable, which makes sense enough. 

Now that he thinks about it, he'd take the same implication far worse than Richard's doing.

He'll make up for it by the time he's on his way back to London.

"I can be filthier."

A beat.

"Didn't mean that to be a compliment."

"I took it as one."

Richard looks over his shoulder, toward the back door of the house he grew up in.

And then he turns back around and kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr as [@combeferre](https://combeferre.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
